


and there we'll feel what's human inside her

by madgrad2011



Series: Out of the Ash [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lydia Martin, Banshee Lydia Martin, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Lydia-centric, Missing Scene, POV Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madgrad2011/pseuds/madgrad2011
Summary: They are always trying to protect me.She clenches her hands into fists as her eyes harden. My turn, she thinks.She opens her mouth wide and screams.





	

_Beware_  
_Beware._

 _Out of the ash_  
_I rise with my red hair  
And I eat men like air._

_Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus”_

* * *

It’s her grief that betrays her.

She inhales sharply when she spots him, her ears ringing and heart pounding as she tracks his approach. His gait is slow, measured, primal as he climbs the stairs towards her.

Lightning flashes and she feels the knot of anger, longing, and despair that curls heavily - possessively - around the base of her spine begin to unravel. She blinks and he’s still there, his lips pressed into a thin line as he advances. Her chest aches from holding her breath.

 _Aiden_.

“No,” she exhales quietly, her shoulders tensing as she stumbles backwards.

_He shouldn’t be here._

“Sorry, Lydia,” he says softly. His brow seems to furrow with concern yet his eyes remain cold and distant.

(She blinks and remembers his hot breath on her chest.)

“But your treatment’s not done,” he states. “Not yet.”

The first sharp sting of the taser brings her to her knees, the wet concrete scraping the heels of her hands like a pumice stone. The electric current spreads quickly from her side, where the tip of the taser still rests, to her limbs.

“No!” She cries out in fear and frustration just before the second taser touches her back. She bites her tongue as her muscles spasm and she tastes blood.

 _Allison_.

“Please, I have to tell them,” she croaks, her voice breaking as two orderlies restrain her. Her skin crawls, every drop of rain conducting electricity back into her sore muscles and through her limp body.

_Remember._

She looks up at the black sky and whimpers, “They’re all going to die.”

***

“Tell me what happened to them,” he coaxes, dabbing at her brow with a dry cloth. Moisture from her wet hair seeps into her pillow, creating a damp halo around her head.

“Don’t remember-”

***

“Is Derek smiling?” Stiles asks. She can tell by his tone that his nose is scrunched and forehead wrinkled.  She glances up from filing her nails and rolls her eyes. They’re leaning against the jeep waiting for their turn to say goodbye.

“Well, it does appear as if his seventh cranial nerve has enervated the various muscles needed to turn that frown upside down,” she replies with a smirk as she watches Derek and Scott exchange a hug.

“Yeah, but...with teeth?” Stiles sputters, his hands gesticulating wildly in Derek’s general direction.

She shrugs and goes back to filing her nails.

“Not fangs. Teeth,” Stiles clarifies, turning to face her. “Lydia, he has teeth.”

She sighs and look up again to see Derek nodding thoughtfully at Scott while Malia and Braeden exchange phone numbers beside them. Derek catches Braeden’s eye and grins. Lydia cocks her head and purses her lips.

“I think he’s happy,” she muses softly.

When Stiles doesn’t respond, she turns her head to look at him. The sun is starting to set behind them, the reddish-pink light illuminating a small patch of stubble on his jaw that he must have missed while shaving. He huffs in disbelief, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Hence the cranial nerve action,” she continues, her heart fluttering a little as her gaze flits over his pouting lips to meet his incredulous stare.

 _Don’t frown, Lydia_ . _Someone could be falling in love with your smile_.

“Derek Hale and happy,” Stiles finally says ruefully, squinting over his shoulder to watch the sunset. “I would typically reserve that pairing for a game of one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other.”

She slips her nail file into her purse, glances down at her shoes, and allows herself to wonder - only for a moment - if he’s happy.

_Could I have made him happy?_

She clears her throat decidedly. “We’ve encountered werewolves, kanimas, dark druids, kitsunes-”

“Banshees,” he interrupts with small smile, watching as she uses her fingers to keep count.

“Banshees,” she concedes with a tilt of her head. “Plus, werejaguars and berserkers. But, you still have trouble believing Derek Hale could be happy?”

Stiles shrugs. “He was something constant in an _incessant_ state of of inconsistencies.”

The warm air grows thicker with unanswered questions and unspoken declarations.

She licks her dry, dusty lips. “You’ve been studying for the SATs,” she teases, bumping his elbow with her own in an effort to alleviate the all-too-familiar tension growing between them.

One corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile as he returns the gesture. He nods towards their friends still huddled around Derek’s truck. “I think it’s our turn.”

Lydia turns and sees Scott beckoning them over to the group.

“I think you’re right,” she sighs.

(She pretends not to notice how his hand automatically finds the middle of her back as they walk towards their friends, or how lost she feels when he removes it to throw his arm around Malia’s shoulders.)

She exchanges goodbyes with Braeden first - a few well-meaning but ultimately empty words about staying in touch and keeping Derek out of trouble. Lydia catches Scott kissing Kira’s temple out of the corner of her eye just as Stiles moves to pull Derek into a hug mid-handshake. She snorts at Derek’s wide-eyed look of surprise and Scott’s quick thumbs up to Stiles.

“Hey,” Braeden says, her voice low. “You know they need you, right?”

Lydia’s gaze is guarded when she slides her eyes back up to meet Braeden’s frank stare.

“Of course,” she replies carefully. The words taste stale in her mouth. Braeden looks like she might call bullshit before recognition flickers across her face and her eyes soften slightly. Lydia swallows.

“Hey, Lydia!” Stiles calls. “It’s your turn to bid goodbye to sourwolf.”

Braeden’s eyes dart to a spot behind Lydia and she smirks. Lydia turns just in time to see Derek smack Stiles’ shoulder.

“Jesus!” Stiles yelps. “That’s gonna leave a bruise!”

“Something to remember me by,” Derek growls good-naturedly before turning his attention to Lydia.

She’s surprised by how light he seems. His shoulders are relaxed, his hands unclenched...

She envies him.

She gives him a close-lipped smile as he approaches and extends her hand. The corners of his lips turn up as he takes her hand in his. They stand across from each other in the fading light, their hands clasped.

“Congratulations,” she finally says, breaking the silence.

 _For surviving,_ she thinks. _For finding happiness_ . _For finally being able to live the life you deserve._

“Thanks,” he responds. He squeezes her hand once before releasing it. “You know how to reach me?”

Lydia nods.

“Good.”

(She remembers the freshly-laundered scent of the t-shirt and shorts he lent her after she showed up at the loft, soaked and screaming; the kindness in his eyes when he handed her a mug of hot tea; and the steadiness of his hands as he dialed her mom’s number.)

Her chest aches with something akin to regret.

“Derek, I-”

He  interrupts her by stepping forward and wrapping his arms protectively around her slight frame.  

“If you need anything, you call. Ok?” He says gently, his breath ruffling her hair.

_I know._

He doesn’t say it aloud, but the sentiment is there. Lydia presses her lips together and takes a deep breath through her nose. Although the desert air is beginning to cool, it still carries the scent of warm sand and rock.

“Ok,” she acquiesces as she exhales, the tension in her chest lessening. Derek releases her and gives her a small smile before glancing at his watch.

“We should get going,” he says over his shoulder to Braeden. He turns towards his truck and opens the driver-side door as Lydia moves to join the other members of the Pack.

“I’m glad you came back,” Lydia states softly, pausing next to the open truck door.

Derek glances at her over his shoulder, one of his eyebrows raised.

“To say goodbye,” she finishes with a sad smile.

Because, honestly, the thought of people leaving without saying goodbye - without giving her the chance to say goodbye - makes her feel physically ill.

_Jackson._

Bile rises in her throat.

_Aiden._

“Me too,” Derek replies, his tone empathetic.

_Allison._

Her heart aches.

She glances over at the spot where Stiles, Scott, Kira, and Malia stand in front of the jeep waiting for her. The sun dips below the horizon, casting their faces in shadows.

She doesn’t want to lose anyone else.

Her smile falls a little.

She can’t.

***

“What happened to your friends?” He asks, his gaze intent.

“I don’t-”

***

_Lydia, wake up._

She inhales sharply, her forehead creasing and eyelashes fluttering. Her heart pounds painfully and her limbs tingle unpleasantly.

“Lydia?” A muffled voice asks.

She blinks rapidly and gasps, her back arching slightly. The surface under her body is hard and cool to the touch, but something soft cradles her head. She groans as her senses sharpen, and she feels someone’s hands squeezing one of her own.

“Lydia, are you okay?”

 _Scott_.

“What happened?” She replies woozily, closing her eyes against the harsh florescent lights. She moves to pull her hand out of Scott’s grasp, but he holds onto it a little tighter.

“You passed out.”

She can hear the worry in his voice. There is a soft ringing in her ears. She licks her lips and slowly opens her eyes, turning her head to face him and catching a glimpse of red out of the corner of her eye. The item’s scent - warm earth, dry leaves, and sweat - surrounds her, familiar and comforting.

“Do you remember-”

“Scott,” Deaton interrupts gently, “give her a moment.”

Scott nods, the tension in his slightly-crooked jaw all too obvious. Lydia gives him a quick, reassuring smile before looking at Deaton.

“Could I get some water please?” She croaks.

“Of course,” Deaton replies. “I’ll only be a moment.”

He moves out of her range of sight, and she hears the clink of glasses and running water in another room. Scott still hasn’t released her hand.

“Scott,” she teases, cautiously wiggling her toes and flexing her fingers, “you can let go of my hand. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

She expects him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Scott?” She questions, one of her eyebrows raised. He takes a deep breath, squeezing her hand one last time before letting go.

“I just…” He stops abruptly as Deaton returns. Lydia pushes herself up slowly to sit on the edge of the metal table with her feet dangling. Her hand brushes against the item that had been cushioning her head; she shoots Scott another smile when she recognizes his sweatshirt. She accepts the glass of water from Deaton and takes a small sip.

“How long was I out?” She asks, her legs swinging slightly.

“Nearly an hour,” Deaton replies.

“Oh,” she says, glancing at Scott. His nose is scrunched as he chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Do you remember what we were practicing before you lost consciousness?” Deaton asks, watching as she takes another sip before carefully setting down the glass. She wraps her fingers around the edge of the table and closes her eyes.

She had approached Deaton at the beginning of the summer about honing her precognition abilities. They decided to start with meditation. Deaton had thought that stilling her mind might open her subconscious to additional messages or, at the very least, help her better understand the messages she received. That first session with Scott and Stiles had been a bit of a disaster.

Stiles had fallen asleep less than ten minutes in, his back curving forward as his head drooped toward the carpeted floor. She and Scott had tried holding in their laughter for as long as they could, their faces shiny and red from their efforts. She didn’t think she would ever forget Stiles’ startled face and flailing arms when Scott finally broke, or the happiness she felt as they all laughed so hard they cried.

(Stiles’ contact picture in Lydia’s phone was now him napping in the middle of the floor with his hands crossed beneath his cheek, his legs folded under his body, and his ass hiked in the air.)

The second technique Deaton had suggested was drinking a concoction of herbal supplements with properties known to improve one’s focus. After a week of enduring _22 Jump Street_ -related jokes from the Pack, she had tried Deaton’s “Magical Mystery Smoothie” (Stiles’ facetious description, not hers)...

“Deaton probably put peyote in it,” Stiles had stage-whispered to Scott before she took her first sip.

He hadn’t. But, he had included a small dose of aconite to slow her heart rate.

She hadn’t been able to finish the entire drink. While the concoction had increased her focus slightly, it had also caused her to throw up repeatedly. Malia and Kira had followed her to the bathroom and taken turns holding her hair.

“Lydia,” Deaton prompts again.

“Using emotions as a trigger,” she responds slowly, sorting through her hazy memories.

She remembers Scott’s reassuring smile and Deaton’s steady voice as she sank into one of the leather chairs in the office, her eyes watering from the scent of ammonia permeating the air.

“Regulate your breathing,” Deaton had coaxed. “Visualize what or who makes you feel powerful.”

She had licked her lips and closed her eyes.

_Black boots. Red lipstick. Baseball bat._

She had smiled when the last image entered her mind.

 _Stiles_.

(He would become insufferable if he found out that a baseball bat made her feel powerful.)

She remembers her fingertips beginning to tingle like they would when she would run her fingers over the strings of her violin, the vibrations reverberating along her skin.

(She would have to take this knowledge to the grave.)

_Grave._

She had sucked in her cheeks and tried to focus on the energy moving from her fingers to her palms.

_Allison._

The nightmare had surfaced unexpectedly and violently, a scream clawing its way out of her throat as she felt the familiar brush of Peter’s lips against her neck and his claws digging into her fragile flesh, cutting through tissue and fat, and severing muscle. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the feeling of his decomposing mouth on hers - his dry, chapped lips bruising her own and his burnt, flaking hands tangled in her hair.

When he pulled away, he had transformed into Jackson.

(He always transformed into Jackson.)

His eyes had flashed blue.

“I’m the spark that lit your fire,” Jackson had snarled into her ear before caressing her face with blood-soaked hands, unhinging his mouth, and consuming her whole.

“Lydia.”

 _Concentrate_.

She slowly opens her eyes and loosens her white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table. Deaton looks at her with a quizzical expression, his hand on her shoulder. Scott stands behind him, quietly observing her reaction.

“I don’t-” Her voice is unsteady. Scott moves forward and reaches for her hand, but she pulls away.

She inhales and starts again. “I don’t know exactly what happened,” she lies. Scott quirks an eyebrow at her but does not interrupt.

“Are you sure?” Deaton asks.

Lydia nods, glancing at Scott. His face is inscrutable.

“Very well. We can talk about it another time,” Deaton concedes nonchalantly, stepping back. “Scott, you should probably drive Lydia home tonight.”

“I can-”

“Lydia,” Scott interjects. “Please. Let me take you home.”

(OOO)

She cautiously climbs off the back of Scott’s bike, shivering slightly as she removes his hoodie and delicately places it on the seat. She clears her throat.

“Thanks for the ride.” Her voice wavers slightly and she averts her gaze.

Scott releases the kickstand and steps off the bike, his movements fluid and graceful as he moves to stand in front of her.

“Thank you,” she continues quietly, “for everything.”

Scott looks at her and she feels unraveled.

“I know,” he whispers softly. She inhales sharply, her plump bottom lip trembling. She knows Scott can hear the rapid beat of her heart - can smell her anxiety, fear, and frustration.

“You know, I confronted him about it once. Peter,” Scott says, giving Lydia a knowing look. “Asked him why he chose me.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, slipping his hands into his jean jacket pockets. He looks down, his jaw tightening and his brow furrowing.

“He said that it was a matter of convenience; he needed a Beta and I was there.” He chuckles bitterly, biting his lip and glancing at Lydia.

“He changed my life - the lives of my friends - forever because…” Scott trails off. The light from his bike’s headlight reflects off her mother’s mailbox and illuminates one side of his face. Grief thins his lips and fills his eyes.

She swallows audibly. They don’t say her name aloud, but still the silence grows heavier as the vacancy Allison left expands and fills the space between them.

“I hate him,” she mutters, her left hand clenching into a fist. Scott nods, steps forward, and reaches for her hand. She doesn’t pull away this time. His entire face is illuminated by the refracted light as he holds her wrist delicately in his large hand.  She can feel a callous on his thumb.

“We are more than what he did to us,” Scott says firmly, opening her fist gently one finger at a time. “I have to remind myself of that every day, but it’s true.” Lydia meets his gaze, her heart swelling at the vulnerability in his eyes.

“We are not who we are because of him.” Scott lifts her now open hand to his lips and kisses her palm. “We are who we are in spite of him.”

A strangled sob escapes her throat as Scott tenderly places their joined hands on her side just above her scars.

“We’re going to be okay.”

Her pulse pounds at the base of her neck, its rhythm drumming above her collarbone. It is consistent. It is strong. She throws her arms around Scott and hides her face, wet with tears, in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her temple.

“We’re going to be okay,” he says again, his warm breath caressing her ear. She can feel their hearts beating in tandem - a steady testament to their survival.

Relief blooms in her chest like a flower as it turns its face to the sun.

***

“What happened to Kira?” He asks, his tone sickly-sweet.

“Don’t...” she whispers.

***

“I’m not ready for this.”

“For what?” Lydia asks distractedly. She’s currently hunched over a large pile of clothes perched on the edge of Kira’s bed sorting through what she deems to be an _obscene_ amount of black skirts.

“This,” Kira replies helplessly, gesturing vaguely at the open suitcase on the floor and plopping down with a huff. Lydia purses her lips as a few articles of clothing fall off the bed and onto the floor.

“Packing?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. Kira grimaces and bounces slightly as she reaches for a throw pillow to pull into her lap.  

“Leaving!” Kira exclaims exasperatedly, hugging the fleece pillow to her chest. Lydia straightens, languidly stretching her arms over her head before pushing the pile of clothes towards the center of the bed.

“You won’t be gone for long,” she replies, sitting daintily.

“Six weeks,” Kira sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Six weeks! A lot can happen in six weeks…”

“Things have been quiet,” she says, leaning forward to rap her knuckles on Kira’s wooden nightstand. “Maybe the universe has decided to give us a break.”

“Maybe,” Kira acquiesces, “I just…”

She trails off, picking at her pillow. Lydia tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

“What?” She asks gently. Kira shrugs and sniffles.

“Is this about Scott?” Lydia continues, reaching out to touch Kira’s shaking hand.

“What if he finds someone else?” Kira asks, her voice small and strained.

“Scott loves you,” she replies, firmly grasping Kira’s hand.  “He doesn’t want anyone else.”

Kira scrunches her nose and bites her lip. “He hasn’t said it yet.”

“That he loves you?” She inquires, surprised.

Kira nods. “And that’s okay because I don’t want to pressure him or anything-”

“Kira-”

“He’s got a lot on his plate, obviously, and I don’t want him to say it unless he means it and-”

“Kira!” She interrupts again, laughing lightly and holding up her hands. Kira stops and smashes her lips together, chagrined.

“Ok. First, take a breath,” Lydia prompts with a smile. Kira offers her a nervous smile in return before inhaling deeply.

“Better?” She asks. Kira nods and smiles a little wider.

“Good. Now, I’m going to tell you a secret,” she whispers conspiratorially, leaning forward. Kira sucks in her cheeks and shifts closer.

“Boys,” Lydia continues, “are idiots.”

The loud, relieved giggle Kira releases makes her grin.

“Scott loves you,” she says decidedly, squeezing Kira’s hand reassuringly. “Everyone can see it.”

The lamp on the nightstand behind Kira seems to shine a little brighter.

“You really think so?” Kira asks breathlessly.

“Yes!” She laughs, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. Kira falls forward into the pile of clothes with a happy sigh. Lydia shifts off the bed and stoops to pick a black, leather skirt off the floor.

“I feel so stupid for wanting him to say it though, you know?”

She turns back towards the bed. Kira’s eyes are closed, her lips pursed.

“Hey,” she states, poking Kira’s shoulder gently. “You are not stupid. Everyone needs validation that they’re loved every once in awhile.”

_You’re my best friend (And I love you)._

She clears her throat.

“Even a badass, sword-wielding Kitsune,” she finishes lightly.

Kira smiles and opens her eyes before sitting up and quickly pulling her into a hug.

“Thanks,” Kira sighs. Lydia feels the short hairs on the back of her neck rise in response to the low current of electricity emanating from Kira’s body.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, carefully extricating herself from Kira’s hug so as not to get shocked. “Relationship pep talks happen to be one of my specialities. And, anyway, some distance might be good for you two.”

Kira’s forehead furrows in confusion.

“I mean, just imagine how good the sex will be once you’ve given him a chance to miss you,” she teases.

“Lydia!” Kira squeals, hiding her red face in her hands as the light flickers behind her.

Lydia winks mischievously. “Let’s finish getting you packed.”

(OOO)

Kira has been gone for nearly two weeks when she receives her first postcard.

The image on the front is of an obelisk with the words “Central Park” in large, yellow letters beneath it. She smiles when she recognizes Kira’s handwriting on the back:

_According to our tour guide (a.k.a. my dad), this is Cleopatra’s Needle - a 3,000 year old Egyptian ruin given to NYC in 1879 by the Khedive of Egypt. It weighs 220 tons!_

The second postcard arrives one week later - the image on the front an art-deco inspired print of the Statue of Liberty. Lydia sniggers when she reads Kira’s quick note:

_My dad made me climb 354 stairs so we could tour the crown._

She gets a postcard every week with a new piece of trivia about New York City written on the back in Kira’s familiar scrawl. By the end of the summer, her bulletin board is overflowing with images - the postcards sent by Kira filling the spaces between the pictures of France she received from Allison nearly one year ago.

When she looks at the board, her heart feels a little less broken.

***

“Tell me about Parrish,” he cajoles.

“...remember...”

***

“You need anything, kiddo?”

She looks up from her well-worn copy of the bestiary to smile at Sheriff Stilinski. He’s standing in his office doorway looking at her with kind eyes and a half-smile.

“No, but thanks for asking,” she replies.

“Where is everyone?” He asks nonchalantly, leaning against the doorframe and taking a sip of his coffee.

She knows the real question he wants to ask: _Why are you here distracting one of my deputies and not out with your friends?_

“Stiles and Malia are on a date, and Scott is working out with Liam,” she responds with a shrug. Her smile falters a little at the softness in his eyes.

 _So that’s where Stiles gets it_ , she thinks.

“I see,” he says with a thoughtful nod, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and taking another sip of coffee. She closes the bestiary and holds it close to her chest.

“Have you and Parrish made any progress?” He asks after a moment

Lydia grimaces. “Unfortunately, no but-”

She’s interrupted by the department door opening with a loud clang. She turns and sees Parrish shrugging out of his jacket, frustration evident in his expression.

“Welcome back,” Sheriff Stilinski says lightly.

Parrish pauses and catches Lydia’s eye.

“Parrish?” He prompts, moving out of his office doorway into the department’s common space.

Parrish clears his throat before answering. “Sir?”

“Everything go ok?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, his expression neutral as he takes another sip out of his blue “World’s Best Dad” mug.

Parrish’s eyes flit between Lydia and the Sheriff. “Um. Yes, sir. I was able to get the cat out of the tree without having to call the fire department.”

She quirks an eyebrow in amusement.

“Good,” Sheriff Stilinski replies with a small smile. He turns to look at Lydia and winks slyly. “Lydia, always a pleasure. Give your mom my best.”

(OOO)

Safe.

That’s how Parrish feels.

She watches him thumb through the bestiary, his clear green eyes roving from image to image as he tries and fails to wrap his head around the fact that he’s _something_.

 _A something that can survive being set on fire and whose eyes burn red when he’s under duress_ , she thinks sardonically.

She knows he’s intrigued by her and strongly suspects that he’s attracted to her. He keeps a respectful distance, but she can see it in his eyes - that strange mixture of curiosity and lust. It’s the kind of attention she’s used to receiving and, in this way, it’s comforting.

He glances up as he turns a page and catches her watching him. She smiles softly before turning her attention back to her AP Biology summer assignment.

She spends her days with Parrish rebuilding the portions of the wall around her heart that she allowed to crumble for _him_. For the boy who liked her fiercely and obnoxiously, with protective declarations and loud declamations. For the boy who recognized the genius behind her carefully crafted facade.

She keeps her conversations with Parrish light and flirtatious, enjoying the anonymity of her emotions. When she’s with him, she doesn’t have to worry about hurting anyone because he’s _safe_.

“I’m going to grab a snack. Do you want anything?” Parrish asks, pushing his chair back with a squeak.

“No, thanks. I’m good,” she replies.

“Ok. I’ll be right back,” he says with a smile.

Parrish is safe because, when she’s with him, she can continue loving Stiles Stilinski quietly, completely, and without consequence.

(OOO)

Sweat slides off her forehead and down her temple as she attempts to press her hand more firmly against the wound in her side. Shivers rack her body and her hand slips.

“It’s going to be ok,” Kira repeats, her voice unsteady. “What can I do?”

She can feel Kira’s hands trembling.

“Press harder,” she manages to croak, turning her face towards the floor and biting back a groan as Kira adjusts her hands.

“Stiles.”

She looks up when she hears Scott’s voice. Her eyes are immediately drawn to him. He’s standing in the doorway, face pale and mouth slack with shock.

 _Stiles_.

Her face contorts with pain as Theo pulls the tourniquet tighter around her waist. She feels rather than sees Stiles take a few steps closer.

She opens her eyes and forces a smile.

“Tracy,” she croaks. “Gotta find...help Tracy.”

His eyes are unfocused, his breathing labored.

“Stiles,” Scott repeats.

“I’m fine,” she says softly, nodding towards the door. “Go.”

His hands are shaking when he turns to leave.

“Stiles,” she whimpers, closing her eyes.

(OOO)

She wakes up with the feeling that someone’s watching her. She shifts in bed and a sharp pain shoots through her right side.

“Dammit,” she hisses through clenched teeth as she struggles to sit up in bed.

“Can I help?”

She pauses her movements and glances over her shoulder.

“How did you get in here?” She asks, her surprise outweighing her annoyance.

“I told the nurse I was bringing my dad dinner and just kind of snuck in,” Liam replies nervously. “Your mom wouldn’t let anyone back to see you, Mrs. McCall is off duty tonight, and we were all getting worried…”

He scuffs his shoe on the linoleum and shrugs. Lydia pushes herself up into a seated position and offers him a tired smile. “So, Scott sent you to check on me?”

Liam grins a little before picking his blue backpack up off the floor and gently placing it on the bed next to her feet. He unzips it slowly, trying not to make any noise. She tries to sit up a little straighter.

“Scott thought you might like to work on some homework.” He pulls out an AP Biology book and sets it on the side table. Her full lips curve into a smile when she opens the cover to see “Scott McCall” written in thick, black letters inside.

“Kira and Malia picked out some movies you might like,” Liam continues, pulling out copies of _The Notebook_ and _The Princess Bride_. Lydia accepts the DVDs from his outstretched hand and holds them against her chest.

“And Stiles said that you liked Reese’s so…” He pulls a large bag of Reese’s Pieces out of his backpack and sets it on her bed with a bashful smile.

Lydia laughs quietly, shaking her head in disbelief. “Thank you.”

He shrugs happily and starts to reply when the door behind him opens with a loud creak.

“Liam!”

He winces and closes his eyes.

“Hey, Dad,” he replies carefully, grabbing his backpack off the bed and walking toward the door.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” Dr. Dunbar lectures, his voice low as Liam follows him out of the room. “Ms. Martin needs to rest.”

Liam catches her eye before her door closes and offers her an apologetic smile. She responds with a small wave, pulling the large bag of Reese’s Pieces into her lap and opening it with relish.

(OOO)

_They are always protecting me._

“I want to learn how to fight,” she says. “Can you teach me?”

_Because they deserve to be protected too._

***

Her right hand shifts to her side. She can feel the wound from Tracy through her damp shirt, the skin still swollen and slightly puckered around her stitches.

“And Malia, what happened when the Desert Wolf finally found her?” He asks, tucking her wet hair behind her ear.

***

“Lydia, how can you stand it?”

She pauses her perusal of Malia’s closet to glance over her shoulder, pursing her lips to hide a smile as she catches Malia throwing down her hairbrush in frustration.

“Stand what?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow in amusement.

“Your hair!” Malia huffs, her cheeks flushed and hair tangled.

Lydia snorts.

“I’ve had lots of years of practice,” she replies lightly, gently closing the closet door and climbing onto Malia’s twin bed. “What are you trying to do?”

“Ugh. I don’t know,” Malia groans, turning around in her chair to face her.

“Want me to braid it for you?” She asks, crossing her legs and pulling one of the deer-patterned pillows she bought Malia for her birthday into her lap.

Malia shakes her head. “No, I want to be able to do it myself. I can’t always depend on you and Kira.”

Lydia frowns and sits up a little straighter. “Malia-”

Malia winces slightly and holds up one of her hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you and Kira help me because you want to.”

Lydia nods, hugging the pillow to her chest and resting her chin on one of its corners. She senses Malia has more to say so she remains quiet.

“I’m getting used to being in this body now,” Malia mutters, her voice a little sad. “I don’t feel cold all the time anymore. I’m doing ok in school. Fuck, I’m even starting to like vegetables.”

Lydia snorts.

“I have friends and a boyfriend,” Malia continues with a rueful grin. “I guess I just…”

“Need a change?” She suggests softly.

“Yeah,” Malia replies, stooping to pick her brush off the floor and set it on her dresser. Her long hair falls into her face and she pushes it back with an aggravated sigh.

Lydia smiles as an idea pops into her head.

“Hey...let’s take a drive.”

(OOO)

“What are we doing here?” Malia asks, her brow furrowed as she looks through the windshield at the giant Beacon Hills Mall sign. “I don’t need more clothes.”

“First,” Lydia retorts, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “A girl can never have too many clothes, shoes, or accessories.”

“But-”

“Second,” she continues, holding up her index finger. “We’re not here to shop.”

(OOO)

She wiggles her toes in the warm, soapy water and sighs contentedly. It’s been _too damn long_ since her last pedicure. She rolls a bottle of rose gold nail polish between her hands as she watches Malia talk to the stylist in charge of cutting her hair.

“I hate it,” Malia says candidly, wiping a drop of water off her forehead. “It gets in my way when I’m running and stuff is always getting stuck in it.”

“So, you wanna go shorter?” The stylist asks, running her fingers through Malia’s long, wet hair.

Malia meets Lydia’s supportive gaze in the mirror and nods.

“Definitely.”

(OOO)

Stiles’ face lights up when he sees Malia with short hair for the first time. She watches his lips curve into a smile and his amber eyes begin to twinkle.

It makes her heart swell.

“Do you like it?” Malia asks with a shy smile.

He nods emphatically. “You look great,” he replies softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and kissing her temple. Malia’s smile broadens and she nuzzles his neck.

Her heart aches.

She glances down at her newly painted toes and concentrates on her breathing.

“Thank you,” Scott whispers beside her.

She closes her eyes and wills her pulse to slow.

“For what?” She asks, her gaze guarded and tone light.

Scott meets her stare with understanding eyes and a soft smile.

“That,” he replies, nodding towards a still-smiling Stiles.

She tilts her head in acquiescence, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Scott reaches for her hand and squeezes it sympathetically.

It makes her heart hurt a little less.

***

“I know you remember what happened to Stiles,” he mocks, his voice low and insistent.

***

Not yet.

 _time (_ _tīm) n. [Old English_ tīma _, of Germanic origin] 1a. the measured or measurable period during which an action, process, or condition exists or continues; 1b. a nonspatial continuum that is measured in terms of events which succeed one another from past through present to future; 2. the point or period when something occurs_

I just need some time.

***

She misses his laugh.

She remembers watching him and Scott joke around from across the parking lot one day after school. Allison had been standing beside her - beautiful and _alive_ \- smiling widely, her dimples deep and eyes bright. She remembers how Scott tripped over his feet a little when he realized Allison was watching him. Stiles’ laugh had been infectious - his loud guffaws echoing across the asphalt as he threw his head back and closed his eyes. She had bitten her lip to keep from smiling, flicking her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

(She’ll never forget how Allison had rolled her eyes at her good naturedly before pulling her across the lot to say hello to Scott, or how Stiles’ eyes had twinkled with excitement when he saw her.)

She misses his eyes.

She remembers the stillness of his body when he kneeled in front of her, the way the tip of her finger had tingled as he carefully untangled the red yarn she had wrapped there, and the unbearable softness in his amber eyes when he told her that he believed her.

 _And look, if you wanted to, I’d go back to that school right now and search all night just to prove it_ , he had said quietly, chewing on the cap of his pen.

(She’ll never forget the way her heart beat faster when his eyes flicked down to her lips.)

She misses his wit.

She remembers curling up on his couch to watch re-runs of _Chopped_ , her knees tucked into her chest to make room for him as they critiqued the contestants and judges.

“I could make that,” he had boasted, his hand resting unconsciously on her ankle.

(He had once revealed to her his irrational fear of feet so, when he allows her bare toes to touch him, she knows he trusts her.)

She misses their late-night study sessions.

She remembers how he used to slip into the chair across from her with a smile, sliding over a cup of her favorite candy-flavored coffee. She remembers looking up from her work to often find him asleep, cheek resting on a book or on his assignment.

(She’ll never forget the time she shook him awake to find a faint smudge of newsprint on his cheek.)

She misses his hands.

She remembers how soft his voice was when he shared his happiest memory with her during a game of twenty questions, the callous on his palm when she grabbed his hand, and the way his breath hitched when he said his mom’s name.

(She’ll never forget...)

She misses _him_.

***

He wraps his arm protectively around her shoulders and chest as the lights flicker. She can feel the pulse in his wrist beating erratically against her collarbone: _we’re alive, we’re alive, we’re alive_.

She takes a deep breath and sinks into him, her head resting on his chest just below his chin. A loud buzz fills the room as the power begins to stabilize.

“I think we’re ok,” she whispers, starting to shift out of his embrace. He holds her a little tighter and her breath catches in her throat.

“Stiles?” She asks, confused.

“No, it’s not ok,” he replies breathlessly, his body trembling. “All of this. It’s on us.”

 _I should have been able to protect you_.

Her chest tightens with anxiety and grief.

 _You should have been able to trust that I could protect myself_.

“Everything that’s happened,” he continues, shifting from one foot to the other. His breath is warm on her neck. She shivers.

“Everything that’s gonna happen,” he says, pulling her closer. “It’s our fault.”

 _No_ , she thinks sadly.

“It’s our responsibility.”

***

Theo pulls her into the Reserve and towards the Nemeton, his pace quick and unforgiving. She collapses like a rag doll, her limbs folding beneath her. Her body shivers in the chilly night air, her fingers and toes tingling. She stares unblinkingly at the Nemeton and the tangle of teenage bodies still left there. Moonlight reflects off shallow puddles of water and blood. Hot tears leak from her eyes and run across her pale lips.

The world grows silent, and she is alone.

***

She blinks and licks her still-tingling lips.

 _“_ My friends,” she says, her voice cracking. “They're all going to die.”

* * *

 She feels something warm dripping down her neck and onto her collar. She watches Valack out of the corner of her eye as he reaches for a piece of cotton. She jumps when she feels his fingers brush her ear.

“What’d you do to me?” She asks with a hiss.

“I’ve amplified your abilities,” Valack replies, his tone steady but desperate. “Something that just might save the lives of your friends.”

She grimaces and her vision wavers.

***

She wanders through the liminal space between dreaming and death searching…

For _her._

***

“You have to wake up,” Meredith whispers.

“What if I can’t?” She asks, her voice breaking.

“Then you won’t be able to help your friends and they’ll die without you,” Meredith replies.

She looks down at her body on the cot and grits her teeth.

“How am I supposed to help them like this?” She asks bitterly.

“You learned to fight, didn’t you?” Meredith retorts slyly, her eyes sliding up Lydia’s neck to her face.

“Only a little.” She responds, her tone acidic.

“You learned more than you think you did,” Meredith says, ignoring her tone. “And faster than an ordinary person could.”

“But that doesn’t matter now,” she states angrily.

 _Useless,_ she thinks.

“It does. Because I’ll teach you the rest. I’m going to show you how to use your voice,” Meredith continues emphatically.

She glances up to meet Meredith’s confident gaze, curiosity in her eyes.

“How to use it as a weapon.”

***

“Someone’s coming,” she says, her eyes unfocused.

Valack looks over his shoulder as the door down the hall opens with a clang.

“But it’s not Scott,” she says with a slight snarl.

***

“What am I supposed to do? How do I save them?” She asks desperately, her arms extended.

“Don’t be afraid,” Meredith whispers.

***

She dreams of him once after walking through the halls of Eichen with Meredith. In the dream, they park the Jeep near the cliff in the Reserve and climb onto the hood to watch the summer sunset.

He’s laughing like he used to.

Before the ice bath. Before the Nogitsune. Before Donovan.

(She knows. _Of course_ she knows.)

He’s tossing curly fries into his mouth and smiling roguishly. His eyes are the color of bourbon in the low light, and his cheeks are ruddy. She leans in to kiss him and tastes salt on his lips. She gently pulls his bottom lip between her teeth and sucks on it before releasing it with a quiet pop. He moans, burying his face in her neck. His hot breath caresses her collarbone and she inhales sharply.

Between kisses she explains The Riemann Hypothesis, her hands darting through the air enthusiastically as she lectures him on nontrivial zeros and zeta functions. He watches her with soft eyes, stroking her hair.

When night falls, they climb into the Jeep and drive back to Beacon Hills, their warm hands entwined.

***

“Oh god,” she gasps, her hands shaking. “She found her.”

She falls to her knees, her breathing labored.

“You can help her, Lydia! “ Meredith shrieks. “Break. The. Glass.”

She climbs to her feet and takes a deep, determined breath.

“Break the glass!”

She opens her mouth wide and screams.

***

Relief.

That’s what she feels when she first sees him.

“Stiles,” she croaks.

His eyes are wild as she watches him mentally catalogue everything they’ve done to her. Her vision wavers and she sees blood dripping down his face. Dread fills her chest and she tastes bile at the back of her throat.

“You can’t be here,” she says weakly. “You’re going to die if you stay. All of you.”

His face is pale and his expression panicked.

“Stiles, he’s coming,” she insists.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he replies, pulling desperately at the leather straps that restrain her.

“You have to,” she pleads, tears in her eyes. “Stiles, go.”

_She can’t watch him die._

He shakes his head emphatically and grasps her hand.

She tries to memorize his face. The slope of his forehead. The softness of his eyes. The moles that dot his cheeks and neck. The redness of his lips.

“Please,” she cries, her voice breaking.

_She won’t let him watch her die._

***

 _Is this what it feels like to sit inside the eye of a hurricane?_ She thinks, her body quivering.

Valack’s body slides to the floor with a dull thump. She takes a deep breath as a charged silence fills the room. The end of her scream still rings just beyond the edge of the room’s perimeter.

 _Lydia_.

Fingers gently cup her cheeks and she struggles to focus.

“Lydia,” Stiles says.

“You, you came back,” she stutters breathlessly as he pulls the red wires off her head.

“We’re getting you out of here,” he says determinedly.

“No, you can’t,” she protests, her head lolling back. “It’s too dangerous.”

_The screams are too loud._

“Lydia,” he pauses, his hands still cupping her face. “Please shut up and let me save your life.”

Her eyes soften with adoration as her heart swells with hope and, for just a moment, the voices stop.

***

Pain overwhelms her senses as she tries to keep the screams inside.

She touches the thin trail of blood dripping from his ear and her eyes fill with tears.

 _I can’t lose you too_ , she thinks.

***

_Lydia._

_You have to open your eyes._

_Lydia._

She awakens with a jolt, blinking rapidly against the glare of the fluorescent lights. Her head pounds painfully and she winces. Large, warm hands cup her face. Calloused thumbs brush against her cheeks. She looks up and sees him.

 _Stiles_.

She exhales, every muscle in her body relaxing as she realizes _he’s alive_.

His eyes are filled with tears and his hands are trembling. He gently brushes small pieces of glass off her shoulders and onto the cool, metal table.

“You ok?” He asks.

She nods carefully, her eyes drawn to the fresh blood on his cheek. She tries to shift her body - to lift her hand to touch him - but she’s still too weak. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch as he picks a sliver of glass off her chin. A lump grows in her throat and tears fill her eyes.

 _They’re alive_.

He grabs her shaking hand, interlocking their fingers. A mixture of desperation and relief in his eyes as he grips her fingers too tight.

“You’re ok,” he breathes, his shoulders slumping.

She looks down at their entwined hands and her lips curve up into a tender smile. He strokes his thumb along the top of her palm and she inhales. She nods again, not yet trusting her voice. Emotion wells in her eyes and she does nothing to hide it.

 _She’s alive because of him_.

She’s alive because this beautiful boy didn’t give up on her - has never given up on her. He saw her for who she was, and who she could be, before she was willing to accept herself. She trusts him implicitly.

She loves him exclusively.

“Wanna try and sit up?” He asks, moving one of the hands holding hers to cradle the back of her head.

She nods. He and Scott help her into a seated position, her legs stretched out in front of her. Stiles brushes his fingers protectively along her shoulder and down her arm. Glass litters the table and the floor. She glances around the room. Scott stands next to her, his eyes filled with awe and pride. She can hear Deaton breathing heavily behind her. She catches sight of her mom.

“Mom?” She asks, her forehead furrowed.

“Oh honey,” her mom breathes, rushing towards the table and pulling her into a tight embrace. She gently lays her head on her mom’s shoulder before turning her head to look at Stiles.

“He saved my life, mom.” She says, her voice unsteady. “Stiles saved me.”

She doesn’t look away when his eyes grow soft with surprise and adoration.

This time, she leaves her gaze unguarded.

This time...she lets him in.

***

“Let’s get you home,” her mom says softly, kissing her forehead.

“Ok,” she replies, swinging her legs over the side of the table. Scott moves to help her, placing her arm over his shoulder and wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning on him for support as she watches Deaton pack up a special first aid kit for her mom. Stiles hovers next to her, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Stiles,” she calls quietly, holding out her hand. He squeezes her hand reassuringly. She shoots him a grateful smile and tightens her hold infinitesimally.

“Mom?”

Her mother takes the bag from Deaton and glances over her shoulder. Lydia raises her eyebrows in lieu of a question, and her mom smiles.

“Yes, they can come with us,” she says agreeably.

Lydia sighs happily, glancing between her best friends.

“May I?” Scott asks, gesturing towards her feet. She dips her head in acquiescence. He slowly picks her up and carries her towards the front door.

She falls asleep in the backseat of her mom’s car, her head resting on Stiles’ shoulder.

***

Her mom insists on driving her to school after the escape from Eichen House. For days, she sits in the passenger seat listening to her mom prattle on about her future.

“You’ve fallen behind, but I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up quickly,” her mom says.

Lydia grunts noncommittally, tapping her fingers impatiently on the door handle. Her mother looks at her quickly before turning her eyes back to the road.

“Have you submitted your application for early admittance to MIT yet?” She asks.

“Yep,” she replies, popping the “p.”

 _Avoidance and repression_ , she thinks sarcastically. These were coping mechanisms that used to work for her. Now, she’s not so sure…

(She remembers the softness in Stiles’ eyes and the warmth of his hand in hers as he walked her into her house and up to her bedroom.)

“Your biology teacher said she really missed you in class-”

“Mom,” she interrupts, “we need to talk.”

Her mom inhales sharply and clutches the wheel tighter, keeping her eyes on the road.

“About what?” She asks lightly.

“About everything,” Lydia enunciates. “About Grandma. About me. About Scott.”

“About Stiles?” Her mom asks quietly after a beat.

She closes her eyes and counts the moles dotting Stiles’ neck and cheeks from memory.

_You’re my best friend (And I love you)._

“I want you to know,” she finally says, looking out the window. “It’s better when you know.”

(OOO)

They go to the lake house, and she tells her mother everything. When she gets to the part about Allison’s death, her mother holds her while she cries.

“It’s my fault,” she mutters brokenly, her head tucked into her mother’s neck.

“No, Lydia,” her mother says, her voice slightly muffled. “It’s not your fault. Allison made the choice to follow you because she loved you. Just like your friends did when they rescued you from Eichen.”

She feels something wet hit her neck and she gently extricates herself from her mother’s embrace.

“Mom?” She asks, sitting back on her heels.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” her mother cries. “I should have trusted you. I should have trusted your friends… I should have never signed those papers.”

“Mom, you didn’t know,” she says around the lump in her throat. “You couldn’t know.”

She reaches out and cups her mother’s warm face between her hands.

( _Lydia, look at me_ , Allison had said. _You’re going to get through this_.)

“I’m ok, mom,” she exhales.

And, for the first time in a long time, she trusts the veracity of this statement.

She’s here because her friends saved her.

She’s here because she saved herself.

***

Parrish leans on her all the way to her car. She wraps her fingers around the wrist that hangs over her shoulder and surreptitiously checks his pulse. It’s rapid and erratic. She needs to get him somewhere safe before he goes into shock. She helps him crawl into the backseat of her car before pulling her phone out of her back pocket and hurriedly scrolling through her list of emergency contacts.

Mr. Argent picks up on the second ring.

“Lydia,” he says, his voice low. “Scott told me what happened. Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” she replies, struggling to keep her voice steady. “But Parrish isn’t.”

(OOO)

“He’s healing. Slowly.” Mr. Argent states, carefully studying the deep gashes marring Parrish’s chest. Relief fills her chest and she exhales.

“Can you tell us what you remember?” Gerard asks.

Although Scott had warned her about Gerard, it hadn’t made seeing him for the first time since Allison’s funeral any easier. She watches him strut around the room - no longer impeded by the effects of mountain ash - and tries to quell the bile rising in her throat.

_How is it fair that he lived and she didn’t?_

She pinches the skin between her index finger and thumb, and focuses on Parrish’s face.

“Just bits and pieces,“ Parrish replies. “Moments when I caught up with it.”

“What else do you remember?” Mr. Argent asks, his voice clipped.

“I was losing,” Parrish says with a slight grimace, hopelessness tinging his tone.

( _There’s always hope_ , Allison had said.)

“You said you could help him,” she interrupts, gritting her teeth.

“We have an idea or two,” Gerard retorts.

“We’ve been wondering if resolving this internal conflict you’re having could help resolve the external one you’re losing against The Beast,” Mr. Argent replies.

She meets his gaze and quirks an eyebrow.

“Deputy. It’s time that you and your alter ego had a proper introduction,” Gerard asserts.

“How are you going to do that?” She asks skeptically, watching the Argents warily.

“With this,” Mr. Argent responds.

(OOO)

Jordan Parrish is dead.

He can’t survive without the Hellhound.

The Hellhound is death.

It needs Parrish to walk the earth.

(OOO)

Anger fills her chest as she watches him leave.

“Let him go,” Gerard calls.

 _Parrish was supposed to be the solution_ , she thinks bitterly. Her arm still aches from where Gerard grabbed it earlier, and her head is starting to pound.

“Why?” She snaps, her tone acidic.

_How the hell are we supposed to defeat The Beast without him?_

“Because,” Mr. Argent replies, moving closer. “As much as we believe Parrish could take on The Beast, neither of us think he’s our only hope at stopping him.”

She tilts her head in confusion and annoyance. Mr. Argent meets her gaze, a mixture of pride and concern in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” She asks, her tone guarded.

“We think there’s another,” Mr. Argent says with a sad smile.

“You,” Gerard states.

(OOO)

 _Allison_.

That’s the name on her lips as she listens to Gerard describe the life of Marie-Jeanne Valet.

 _Allison_.

“The name Sebastian Valet has been forgotten for over 150 years, but when it’s remembered…” Gerard trails off, watching her closely. She ignores his stare and turns her attention to Mr. Argent.

“When The Beast remembers,” Mr. Argent finishes adamantly, leaning towards her. “The teenager inside is forgotten.”

“Gone,” Gerard enunciates, “forever.”

 _They told me this story to inspire me into action_ , she muses. She slides her gaze between the two men, working to keep her face devoid of emotion. _This is their version of a pep talk._

She closes her eyes and thinks of Allison’s smile. She remembers Allison’s kindness, her strength, and her dedication to her friends.

“Marie-Jeanne didn’t do it alone,” she finally replies, her voice steady and determined. “She was never alone. She had help from Henri, the Magistrate, the town. Even Marcel. We need Parrish. I’m going to go find him.”

“Lydia, he’s dangerous,” Mr. Argent interjects. “He’s still a shapeshifter and one who’s only beginning to understand his power.”

 _They are always trying to protect me_.

“And I’m not?” She asks accusingly, turning around to face him.

_When are they going to trust that she can fucking protect herself?_

“You’re not the same,” Mr. Argent says, his tone that of a father worried about his daughter. “You access the the supernatural. It works through you.”

“But it doesn’t control you,” Gerard adds.

“How would you know?” She asks, her tone biting and her eyes hard.

(She remembers what he did to Allison; it makes her want to scream - to squeeze the life out of him with sound. She remembers the noise Valack made when he hit the floor and adrenaline floods her body.)

“Why do you care?” She continues angrily, striding forward. “Why are you suddenly on our side?”

“Because it’s my name as well,” Gerard answers, sliding a silver bar across the table. “Marie never left Henri after the death of her brother. And their relationship became more than a partnership. They married. And she took his name.”

Her fingers find the familiar crest in the soft silver. She traces its edges and remembers…

 _Allison_.

“Argent,” she says.

“Marie-Jeanne was the first hunter,” Mr. Argent states, moving to stand by his father.

“Our name will be remembered as well, Lydia, for killing The Beast,” Gerard asserts proudly.

“But, I’m not an Argent,” she retorts icily, meeting Gerard’s gaze. She slides her eyes over to Mr. Argent and her voice softens slightly.

“And I’m not Allison,” she concludes.

Pain flickers in Mr. Argent’s eyes and she grits her teeth.

 _I am Lydia Martin_ , she thinks, _and I am enough_.

She turns on her heel and walks away, pulling out her phone to call Sheriff Stilinski.

***

“You can still save them,” she asserts, her heart pounding. “All of them.”

***

“Where are you, Mason?” She mutters, closing her eyes and quickly splashing cold water on her face.

She glances up, catching her reflection in the mirror. She looks jaundiced in the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights, and dark circles bruise the skin under her eyes. She leans closer to the mirror and grimaces, her long eyelashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks.

She bites her bottom lip and, with still-wet hands, carefully lifts the thick section of hair that hides her newest wound. The skin around the trepanation hole is so purple it’s almost black. She gently touches the bandage replaced by Deaton earlier and winces.

 _Soon_ , she thinks, _it will be just another scar._

She clutches the rim of the cool, porcelain sink. Drops of water drip off her chin and down her neck. She reaches for a paper towel and sighs with frustration.

They have to find a way to save him.

She closes her eyes and gently dries her face with the towel.

 _They have to_.

She sways on her feet as a wave of dizziness sweeps over her. Her stomach sinks and a scream crawls its way up her throat.

Something’s wrong.

She drops the towel and stumbles towards the bathroom door, pushing it open just as the first gunshot rings out in the station. She falls forward onto her hands and knees, her face grim.

 _He’s here_.

She grits her teeth and crawls towards the sound of carnage. Blood splatters the walls and gunsmoke fills the air. The door to the station opens with a clang and the gunshots stop. She sees Hayden’s sister crumple to the floor out of the corner of her eye as Sheriff Stilinski crawls towards his dropped gun.

She has to save them.

She has to save Stiles’ dad.

She takes a deep breath, standing up from behind a desk to face him - the Man of Gevaudan. The growl he emits when he notices her causes the hair on the back of her neck to rise in warning. He lunges for her and she screams.

The pain hits her just as he hits the wall, and she raises her hands to her throat. Hot blood coats her palms and runs between her fingers.

“Help,” she manages to croak as falls back on her heels, her vision narrowing.

“I’ve got you,” Sheriff Stilinski says, his deep voice shaking. He gathers her in his arms and cradles her against his chest.

“Stay with me, kiddo. You’ve got to stay with me.”

She presses her hands more firmly against the wounds in her neck.

“Stiles,” she chokes.

“I know,” Sheriff Stilinski whispers. “I know.”

***

A warm hand covers hers, and she opens her eyes.

“Hey, you alright?” Stiles asks, leaning closer.

(She remembers counting the freckles that dotted Allison’s cheeks and nose as Stiles watched her cry from across the moon-soaked classroom. She remembers his hands trembling.)

She grunts a little in an effort to clear her throat, and the relief on his face quickly turns to concern.

“Did you find something? Solution?” She manages to say through the pain.

The expression on his face causes her heart to sink.

“Yeah. It was you. It was you, Lydia.”

***

She fucking hates needles.

Especially when they’re aimed at her neck.

She takes shallow breaths through her nose as Mrs. McCall pulls back the bandage.

“Oh yeah. Ok. I’m going to need to leave,” Stiles says, his voice unsteady.

She looks up with panicked eyes, her heart pounding. She meets his gaze and sees her own anxiety reflected there. He fidgets, balling his hands into fists and jerking his arms as if pulling against restraints. Mrs. McCall places the tip of the needle on her neck and his jaw twitches.

(She remembers Stiles’ fingers brushing the back of her hand reassuringly as Brunski pushed play and her grandmother’s broken voice filled the room. _Lydia, look at me,_ he had said _. Don’t listen to it_.)

Lydia presses her lips into a thin line and slides her eyes over to meet Scott’s concerned stare. Understanding flickers across his face and he looks at Stiles.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Scott’s mom asserts, glancing over her shoulder. “Hold her hand.”

She watches Stiles through her lashes, focusing on her breath.

 _Stay_ , she pleads silently.

(She’ll never forget the fear she felt at the thought of losing him, or his strangled cry when Brunski lunged for her instead of him.)

“Fine. I’m not leaving, but I still might faint,” Stiles finally mutters, chagrined.

Relief fills her chest as she holds his intense gaze. She focuses on the feeling of Stiles’ hand in hers, brushing her thumb against his knuckles.  His eyes never stray from her face as Mrs. McCall presses the needle into her neck. She gasps in pain, squeezing his hand.

“You’re ok,” he whispers, tightening his grip. “Just focus on my voice.”

***

“Mason,” she shouts, her voice thin.

The Man of Gevaudan glances over his shoulder with a smirk. His eyes glow blue and he growls. She can feel Kira trembling beside her.

“I think you’re gonna need to try it a little louder,” Kira whispers desperately beside her.

Black smoke bubbles up from the ground like oil as he begins his transformation into The Beast. She sees Scott and Liam tense behind him. Scott crouches, his red eyes narrowed.

_They are always trying to protect me._

She clenches her hands into fists as her eyes harden.

 _My turn,_  she thinks.

She opens her mouth wide and screams.

* * *

She leans against the car door, her arms crossed, as she waits for Scott and Stiles. A kaleidoscope of colors swirl behind her closed lids as the late, summer sun shines on her upturned face. The wind ruffles her long hair and she sighs contentedly.

They’re _alive_ and everything is going to be ok.

She hears footsteps approaching and opens her eyes.

“Hey,” she says sweetly with a close-lipped smile.

“Hey,” Scott replies, opening the rear driver-side door. His smile is wide and relaxed as he shrugs off his backpack and throws it in the backseat.

“You ready?”Stiles asks with a smile, holding out a large cup of candy-flavored coffee. She takes a quick sip and smacks her lips in satisfaction.

“Let’s go,” she says with a tilt of her head.

(OOO)

The three of them walk up the hill to her grave hand-in-hand.

She and Stiles hang back as they get closer so Scott can have a moment alone. They stand in the shade of the cemetery’s lone sycamore tree and watch him crouch next to the dark headstone. Scott leans forward, his forehead touching the smooth granite, and her breath hitches. Stiles moves to pull his hand out of hers and she tightens her grip.

“You ok?” He asks quietly. Lydia meets his gaze and nods, blinking back tears. He interlocks their fingers and squeezes her hand reassuringly.

They wait until Scott stands before moving forward, their entwined hands swinging slightly. He turns when he hears them approaching and smiles. Her heart swells.

She runs her fingers along the stone’s edges, tracing the letters of her best friend’s name.

 _Allison_.

“She saved us,” Scott says, placing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side.

“Hasn’t she always?” Stiles asks with a shrug, squeezing her hand again.

“Always,” she responds decidedly.

 _Always_.

***

She’s running towards the Nemeton, her chest tight and breathing labored. The slap of her bare feet against the wet the ground echoes throughout the Reserve.

She has to find him. She has to before _they_ do.

Wind tangles her long hair around her neck and whips through her clothes.

“Stiles,” she manages to gasp between breaths.

She hears his voice whispering her name.

 _Lyds. Lydia_.

“Where are you?” She shouts, skidding to a stop. Her feet sink into the ground; mud speckles her legs and she shivers.

“Lydia!”

She turns around in circles, searching.

“Lydia, you have to remember!”

“Stiles,” she croaks, her voice cracking. Something hot and wet drips down her neck. She brushes her fingertips along her skin.

_Blood._

She presses her hands against her neck and struggles to speak. The clip-clop of hooves is carried into the grove on the wind, and her ears ring.

“Please,” she whimpers around the lump in her throat.

 _Stiles_.

She jolts awake, a scream just behind her trembling lips.

 _They’re coming_.

***

“You’re gonna forget me.”

“I won’t.”

***

Energy cannot be created or destroyed in an isolated system.  
Translation: _You can’t win_.

The entropy of any isolated system always increases.  
Translation: _You can’t break even._

The entropy of a system approaches a constant value as the temperature approaches absolute zero.  
Translation: _You can’t even get out of the game._

***

She pulls the note out of her back pocket with shaking fingers. She turns it over in her hands and rubs it gently between her palms. She re-reads the familiar salutation written in an unfamiliar scrawl: _For Lydia_.

She traces the paper’s worn edges with her fingertips, and re-reads the phrase written in her own hand: _Not yet._

She looks up and studies the wall in front of her, running her fingers along the wallpaper seam. She struggles to piece together the hazy, incongruous memories that fill her mind. She tilts her head and purses her lips.

_Remember._

She remembers a pair of soft, amber eyes staring at her earnestly, a large hand rubbing circles on her back, and a constellation of moles spreading across a ruddy cheek.

She turns her back to the wall and unfolds the note with trembling hands.

_Lydia-_

She stomach sinks and her chest tightens.

_I need you to know..._

She slides down the wall and her face crumbles.

 _I love you_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a one-shot analyzing and delineating Lydia's perceptions of her physical scars. Clearly, it evolved into something else...
> 
> Thank you to [Ashlynn](http://wernotthings.tumblr.com/), [Alison](http://rossansguil.tumblr.com/), and [Rachel](http://rongasm.tumblr.com/) for proofreading Part 3. You ladies are the best, and I love you.
> 
> Ash, thank you for introducing me to Teen Wolf and for encouraging me to explore Lydia's character in more depth. Your feedback throughout this process was invaluable. Alison, my Sterek-shipping friend, thank you for reading this stydia fic and for putting up with my writer's-angst. Your no-nonsense attitude with me and my writing style made this fic better. Rachel, you inspire me so much. This fic is truly my love letter to Lydia Martin and to our friendship.
> 
> Finally, thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this part. You are all rockstars!
> 
> Title is taken from "Mermaid" by Okkervil River.


End file.
